


Dreckstück

by Sjukdom



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-24
Updated: 2016-02-24
Packaged: 2018-05-23 00:45:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,559
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6099298
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sjukdom/pseuds/Sjukdom
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Soon Oswald knew that for Maroni he was the kind of man he knew was called “Dreckstück”. A piece of dirt.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dreckstück

**Author's Note:**

> At the beginning this work was much darker than the final result and I'm very happy about this twist. It still cannot be called at all positive, but certainly has some hope in it, despite angst and violence.   
> I have the translation of the word “Dreckstück" in summary, so here's the translation of another German words I used (while I assume that Mrs. Kapelput is German):  
> Mutti = mommy  
> Kindchen = little child

The body was there. His own body. Oswald felt it, really felt it for the first time in his life. Before that, he only knew that he had one. He took it for granted. He gave the fact that he had a body as much thought as the fact that he was breathing and he needed to eat from time to time. No need to actually feel breathing to know it was there. He just breathed. He just had a body to move around in the space.

And suddenly here it was: feet standing on the dangerously sloppy kitchen floor, back so sweaty small drops of salty liquid rolled down it and ended burning the sensitive skin between his buttocks. Hands, rubbing dishes mechanically and endlessly, red and rough from water and soap. Not at all perfect, but still a decent example of human body.

He was sorry he barely noticed it before. And when he did, he saw only its disadvantages. The limp. The greasy hair it grew on its head. The yellow teeth it spurted out of its gums. The freckles that looked like dirty dots. But it did help Oswald to achieve his goals, step by step, limp by limp. It took him out of the icy waters of the river, for fuck’s sake.

And sometimes it provided not only pain and awkwardness, but also pleasure, lonely bits of it that he managed to steal from himself. As lonely as his bed was, ad clumsy as his fingers, stroking his cock, were. As weird as things he pictured in his head, while masturbating. As silent as his moans he didn’t let to escape his throat. But still a kind of pleasure. And Oswald had never been grateful for it.

Strange enough: he, just like other people, started to pay attention to something only after it had been taken from him.

The body was there and Oswald felt it living its life, busy with all processes it required to keep him washing dishes. Oswald watched his hands diving into the foam, fishing out another plate or a glass and cleaning it thoroughly from grease, squelchy bits of meat and sticky wine stains. Even stranger: he started to think about his body in positive way right after he was told that it was as much worth as these leavings he removed every day. And the final destination for it was the same: in the gutter.

***

Unlike Oswald, Maroni was certainly aware that he had a body and took pride in it. Right enough, it was hard not to notice that mass of solid flesh, filling every inch of space it required for itself. This body was cared of, fed with best food and tanned under soft southern sunbeams. It was big, meaty and juicy like a blood orange. But somehow it was not enough. Maroni used other people for his purposes until they were useful no more, until there was no more flesh on their bones, until all that was left was a miserable carcass. He devoured humans like an ancient bloodthirsty god, horrible Moloch reborn. They were nothing but tools and entertainment, weapons and fun. He drained them completely, until they became leavings on his blindingly white dishes.

Oswald proved himself useful. As many before him, he saw this job as an opportunity, a step in a ladder. He hoped that his help would make Maroni trust him completely and that his gratitude would be a contribution to the future Oswald saw before himself. Maroni took everything he gave, muscle after muscle, aching from cleaning all the shit, joint after joint, tense with efforts to be in the right place at the right time. He chewed it with his unnaturally white teeth and smiled, while telling Oswald how foul and loathsome it was. How foul and abominable he was. If he didn’t do everything he was actually doing, Don would never keep the likes of him anywhere near himself. Did Oswald mind doing more to compensate for his loathsomeness? 

Did Maroni do it on purpose? Or he just instinctively released that Oswald considered himself ugly and despicable? However, the strategy he chose was perfect. He approved every bitter thought Oswald had ever thought about himself in his whole life. His living guts were eaten in front of him, but Maroni made it look like an act of charity and courtesy, the kind that guests show after being served with particularly unsavory dish. Oswald was worse than nobody. A traitor. A man without honor or loyalty. The treatment he got from Maroni was the best he could hope for. He will be killed and left to rot to pieces no stray dog would pick one day, but before that he should be grateful that Don Maroni saw his good side and made him do something useful. It all went along too nicely with Oswald’s own self-esteem. If it didn’t, Maroni forced it to go.

***

Soon Oswald knew that for Maroni he was the kind of man he knew was called “ _Dreckstück_ ”. A piece of shit. His _Mutti_ whispered this word under her breath sometimes, when the times were particularly hard, which happened too often. From his childhood Oswald knew that these _Dreckstücke_ were nasty and dangerous persons: elder children, who teased and bullied him, their mothers, rolling their eyes at the sight of Gertrude, doctors in the hospital, telling them they were too poor to get the treatment Oswald’s leg needed, males with sweaty palms, luring little boys in their lairs to do something awful with them. His mother seemed embarrassed with this filthy word, but couldn’t help repeating it again and again. Too many nasty people were around her precious little _Kindchen_.

The word became Oswald’s heartbeat now. _Dreckstück_. _Dreckstück_. Two syllables, one gulping and guttural, one short and hissing. Of all German swearwords _Mutti_ ever said this one stayed to be reinvented by Don Maroni. He never used this particular word, of course. He barely knew any German words at all. But the necessary term popped out of Oswald’s memory all by itself. _Dreckstück_ \- he could see it in every Maroni’s glance. In every blink, when he squinted, while looking at Oswald, as if protecting his eyes from horrible stench. In every word he spoke about him, English word that still had an echo of that German one. It tore its way through the thin fabric of English language, it was harsh, bellowing, growling. Even _Mutti’s_ sing-song whisper couldn’t soften it. Nothing could change its meaning. 

_Dreck-stück_. Two handfuls of mud splashing upon the concrete. One person, too bad to be called something else than human dirt and useful only if someone else thought so.

***

“If you weren’t real, we would have to imagine you”, Maroni told him, slurping red wine from the glass too delicate and fragile for his thick short fingers. The wine had the same color as Oswald’s own blood, trickling from the cut upon his eyebrow and blurring his vision. Maybe it even had the same warm salty taste. Oswald stared at Maroni, dizzy from pain and strong smells of exotic spice. Blood was dripping from his chin and the tip of his nose into his pasta. Nobody cared to treat the wound. Oswald received a hint that the sight of him eating the food with his own blood as a dressing was rather delightful for Don Maroni. And yes, he screwed up with the latest task.

Maroni stared back and was visibly disappointed that the further explanation was needed. 

“This city’s a garbage”, he declared. “A rotten stinking hole for the worst part of humanity to survive in and breed like cockroaches. And you, my friend, are like the spawn of this city. Ugly, crippled, sick. If Gotham was a man, it would be you.” 

Maroni paused to shove another portion of food into his mouth. Everyone except Oswald giggled obediently. Oswald stared down at his plate, unable even to force out a smile. Pasta he was served with that he barely touched cooled down slowly in a growing pool of his blood mixed with tomato sauce. He felt the urge to puke. Trembling candlelight made him sleepy. 

“So”, Maroni went on. “They should put you on every billboard and show you in advertisements. Hell, they should make you the damn mayor. The walking gutter trash instead of this ridiculous fat fuck. Sorry - the limping gutter trash, the purest Gotham breed.”

He roared with laughter, just like everyone else, but his eyes were watching Oswald closely, detecting the smallest hints of disobedience. Oswald braced himself, chuckled and stuffed his mouth with his special pasta. It tasted of nothing but himself. Of dirt.

***

Despite all humiliation, despite all the beatings, loathing and abuse Oswald still considered working for Maroni useful for himself. He was miserable, nervous, torn between conflicting messages, constantly hurt and disrespected, but still he saw the chances this work provided. When he went to sleep, he dreamed that all this would end one day, fall off like a scab, leaving him in his glory, clever and firm as ever. As the true king of Gotham. Fuck Maroni with his sick fantasies. Oswald was really destined for the city, he wad the man it really needed. Its future. If he had to choke on some shit to achieve it, so was it. If he had to be punished for no reason, so was it, he was used to beatings.

Maroni was quick to spot that determination and didn’t like it at all. The funny-walking freak appeared not so easy to break and dispose of, just like everyone else, and even dared to have his own purposes, which included him, Don Maroni. From then on, he tried to cause him more discomfort than pain and provoke as much bleeding as possible. His usual goals were Oswald’s eyes - he could punch him so hard the vessels in them burst out, making Oswald see nothing but red mist. Oswald’s bad leg, so that he could barely walk without someone’s support and there was usually nobody willing to help him. Oswald’s fingers, which, being tortured in curious ways, could hold a fork and a knife at the table only in a very funny way, which was rather exciting. 

Nose and lips bled most, if smashed properly. Oswald knew it perfectly, while he spent too many evenings watching how white tablecloth in front of him became soaked with his blood. He was wearing wet clothes with rusty stains on them. He wasn’t allowed to leave, because it would be too rude, he was told. He could only smile apologetically, but it looked probably awful, while his poor swollen nose kept on bleeding. 

Maroni was especially delighted with such situations. Oswald was forced to think about himself like a filthy little animal among heavenly creatures, who weren’t spilling their bodily liquids right in the middle of a dinner. It could be called a punishment, if there was a crime before that. However, there never was a particular reason for Maroni to become violent. Some time ago Oswald could be scared and disturbed by the unpredictable nature of these outbursts, but now he saw that as the evidence of the loss of control. Maroni grew impatient and hot-headed. Oswald could use it perfectly, if he waited a little longer. One more punch. One more sentence about his duty to be grateful that Don Maroni cared enough to teach him something. One more act of humiliation, when after beatings Maroni washed his hands demonstratively, as if afraid that too much of Oswald’s dirt could be stuck to him. Oswald took it all. And waited.

***

Maroni suspected that Oswald was somehow forgetting, who he was. Oswald tried not to show it, but it was too obvious, that the first impressions faded, that evil spells were broken and he regained his usual state of mind. He had a purpose now and saw it more clear than ever. The filth dared to think of itself as a human. It was wrong. Maroni was the one in charge, the zookeeper. Oswald was a monkey. He should always remember that. He should wear this knowing like a collar.

And Maroni decided to put it on him with his own hands.

It started unnoticed. Oswald just happened to be alone with Maroni and dangerously close to him. Too close, so his hands could reach out and end around Oswald's neck. Too close, so that Oswald smelt his sweat, mixed with unnatural odour of aftershave and cigars. The skin on his balding head was brown and shining, like a chestnut. Oswald was too relaxed and lost in thoughts about his future to react in time. When he realized that he was trapped, the pressure came and grew only stronger and stronger. Maroni failed, trying to deprive him from his body or his intentions. Now he tried to deprive him from air. 

Oswald tried to struggle, tried to rip off Maroni's hands from his throat, clawed his palms, leaving deep scratches on surprisingly smooth tanned skin. Red light went on and off in his head, silent sirens wailed. Maroni stood firmly, squeezing Oswald out of his body into an endless vacuum without any air, without any life, where nothing mattered. Blood burned in Oswald's veins, his heart was boiling out, flowing down his chest into his stomach, into his cock, stiff and pulsating like the new heart, replacing the former organ. The pulse was beating wildly in his ears, tiny hammer's blows shutting down his brain. It certainly didn't last long, but felt like eternity, while Oswald whimpered soundlessly, opening and closing his mouth uselessly, tears rolled down his face, lungs screamed for a gulp of air. The spasm in his crotch felt like an electric jolt, going through the dead body. His body, half-dead from suffocation, but still able to cum.

The hands disappeared. Air flowed into him, but it wasn't pleasant, it burned like acid. Each breath was a torture. It was wrong, impossible to understand. Maroni could be pleased: finally he turned Oswald into brainless, scared beast, confused and trembling. As he slowly regained consciousness, Oswald found himself on the floor, sticky with cold greasy sweat, panting hoarsely, his trousers damped with his own still warm semen. Oswald's throat felt sore and deformed, the forced ejaculation echoed like a hard blow right into his guts. 

Maroni contemplated him from the distance, rubbing his hands as if he couldn't wait to enter the bathroom. 

"Jizzed in your pants, aren't you?" he said with disgust."Sick fuck. Jack off before I'll come near you next time, please. Jesus." 

Of course he knew about that simple physiological reaction. But miss a chance to show Oswald his place? To make him feel embarrassed for being human? To persuade himself he still was the one in control? No way. 

" _Dreckstück_ ", Oswald swore under his uneven breath. It felt good to call someone else like that. In fact, all this time he used the word towards the wrong person. Maroni was that _Dreckstück_ all the time. Like every other person that had ever been mean to Oswald. Like boys in school. Their only destination had been and was now the gutter. And soon Maroni would join them, too.

Oswald laughed noiselessly and slowly got up from the dirty floor.


End file.
